


Two Minutes

by Vesta (Biggelois)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-21
Updated: 2010-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biggelois/pseuds/Vesta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's back at square one again. Dean came and got him and there is no getting away this time. There is definitely no forgetting. Two minutes, two goddamn minutes at the time, that's all he needs. To get his breath back, to try to stay sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Season 1.

I.

Two minutes, that was all he needed. Two goddamn minutes. Sam locked himself in the bathroom and unzipped as soon as the door closed behind Dean. Dean would be back soon, he was only doing a coffee-run, but two freaking minutes were enough.

Sam's dick practically leapt into his hand, already wet at the tip and he hadn't bothered with grabbing the lotion from his toiletry bag. It was enough with spit, had to be. Two minutes to clean the pipes and he would be good to be around Dean for another few hours.

He worked himself hard and fast, images of Dean's naked body flashing in his head. There was no thinking about the wrongs in this. It was like when you owe money, a couple of thousand bucks can mess up your life, but owe a million and it's so far from reality it doesn't even register. This? This was in a different universe. A universe where he could want, and touch, and do all the things he thought about. Sam hated this universe; he didn't want to be there. He had escaped for a brief moment, but then Dean came for him and he was back to square one.

Sam was pretty certain that he would have come with Dean, no matter what. Jess's death was just an excuse. And here he was again, wanting, not having. Being forced to watch Dean trot of with any random woman, biting his tongue until it bled so he wouldn't get up and claim what was his. Because it wasn't, Dean wasn't. Never would be.

Sam leaned against the sink, jeans pushed down just enough to reach. There was no pleasure in it. Just get off, fast, be able to function for a little longer. Get the stress out off his system enough to not go grab Dean. And touch. He came with a strangled grunt, refusing to acknowledge the syllables slipping through. And he refused to look at himself in the mirror. Sam knew far too well by now what his eyes looked like, a little haunted, begging, pleading.

Sam had just had the time to arrange himself on the bed, laptop open, looking industrious, when Dean breezed in. Bag with coffee in one hand, bag of donuts in the other. If he thought Sam looked weird, he didn't say anything. The day before he had said something though, he had asked why Sam refused to look at him. The answer was so simple and so impossible to give. Sam had just shrugged it off.

The coffee burned his tongue and the donuts tasted like sawdust. Sam did not look at Dean.

 

II.

Two minutes. If he only could close his eyes and sleep for two goddamn minutes, he might be able to clear his head. No matter what he did, he couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, sweating the sheets translucent. No sleep. Not with Dean in the next bed, dressed in no more than boxers.

At night the thoughts came. The thoughts that told of sick and twisted desires. Wrong, so very wrong. The ones he held at bay during the day, not touching Dean, not thinking when he rubbed himself off.

Dean on his belly, hand under the pillow, grasping the knife. Sam could see the line of his bent leg, the curve of his ass, the long, strong stretch of his broad back. What made his mouth water was the tender, vulnerable spot just where Dean's shoulder met his neck. Soft skin on his throat, thin enough for Sam to see the steady pulse beating.

It was killing him. Slowly and gently, but killing him. 'You shall not covet…' The words echoed in his head, loud enough to make his back spasm. Every time he closed his eyes he saw flames crawl over the ceiling, saw Jess there. Accusing him. She must have known that she was only second best, even when Sam didn't know it himself. Gets you for wanting, for being greedy.

Sam forced his eyes shut. Stuck between a rock and a hard place was a tender spot to be, compared to the saggy bed he was lying in. The springs dug into his back, small stings of hurt. He had tried to concentrate on them, on the crack in the ceiling, anything to draw his mind to a place without thoughts. Had been no use. He was still hard, leaking a little on his belly where his dick rested. His eyes were open again.

Hard, so hard he was aching. The crack in the ceiling caved and yawned when he stared too long at it. Dean snored, small snuffling noises. Sam remembered them from before, when he was little and still slept beside Dean. They had always meant safe, warm. Now, when he knew what his body could do, what the tingling, tensing sensation meant, they brought only more hurt, leaving him hotcold, skin goose-bumped in the humid night air.

Sam could barely stifle the groan when he turned over on his belly and shoved a pillow underneath his hips. He had to be fast and not make any noises, Dean could seem dead to the world but he woke at the slightest 'wrong' noise. Sam's half-sobs were 'wrong' noises.

He pushed two fingers, wet with saliva, into his ass. It burned, he wasn't ready. Other hand pushed under him, holding his dick. It was quick work, thrusting into his hand -the pillow a poor substitute for a body- and back onto his fingers. When he came with his face pressed into the mattress, he had a bitter taste in his mouth and his eyes burned.

It was impossible to get comfortable. Sam had tossed the soiled pillow on the floor; the sheets were damp and wrinkled. Dean so close but yet so far away. The clock on the bedside table blinked 4:22, green angry numbers. His eyes still burned when he forced them shut again.

5:05. Sam stared at the clock. 40 minutes. He had slept for 40 minutes. Somehow he could still smell the smoke from his dream. He sat up on the side of the bed and reached for his jeans.

Sam tried to be quiet when he got back, but as he closed the door, Dean woke up. Wrong noise.

"What time is it?" Dean sounded groggy.

"A quarter to six. I got coffee." Sam handed over the cup, he really didn't want to answer anymore questions. The same questions, every morning.

Dean took the cup, and sat up, leaning against the headboard. Sam studiously did not look at him. What he felt would be too obvious on is face. He stared at the cup instead.

"Did you sleep at all?"

Sam nodded. He wasn't lying, he had slept. Then Jess had been back, staring at him from the ceiling. Dean grunted in response and took a sip of coffee.

"Don't lie to me, Sam." Dean didn't sound groggy anymore. Razor-sharp. "I know you didn't. You have to...you have to tell me what's going on. I know about the nightmares. Alright? It's about Jess, I know that too. But there is more and I can't help you if you don't talk to me." The last words were shouted, Dean had jumped up from the bed.

Sam kept his eyes on his cup of coffee and shook his head. "There's nothing more. Just...just that."

He heard the footsteps, expected a thwap at the head. Instead Dean's hand landed on his neck, gripping lightly. "Talk to me, Sammy. I can't stand to see you like this. Please. Just talk to me."

How could he ever tell? Sam shook his head again. "I can't Dean. Not...not about this."

Dean's fingers tightened around his neck, thumb rubbing just under Sam's ear, the motion strangely soothing. Sam wanted to arch his neck, press into the touch, but that was another thing he couldn't have.

"It's nothing, Dean, I promise." Sam pulled his head away from the touch and looked up at Dean. "I promise," he repeated. "It's nothing."

Sam poured the coffee in the sink. His throat was so tight he couldn't even swallow.

 

III.

"Could you stop for two goddamn minutes? I'll eat when I want to. Stop fucking nagging."  
Sam could hear the brittle whine in his voice. But he couldn't stand another second of Dean's 'You gotta eat, come on man, at least something'.

Dean didn't stop. He kept talking and Sam, he just sat there. He had heard it before. The same tone, the same words. Dean had been on repeat the last few days. But he hadn't seen that look on Dean's face before though. That one was new. A little worried, a little tense. Dean had even cut the waitress off when she came back to refill the coffee. A waitress with a D-cup, and Dean brushed her off. Amazing.

The noises from the diner, Dean's voice, a white noise in his ears. They had all tuned together, tuned out, to a low buzz. Dean's mouth was still moving, spouting words but Sam didn't hear. He watched Dean's lips, caught by how soft they looked, how pink, a little wet, the small crumb of bread in the corner of Dean's mouth. The tip of Dean's tongue flicked out, swiped it away, and left his mouth clean, lips glistening lightly.

He wanted to touch, to reach out and press his thumb against the full lower lip, press and feel teeth behind. Sam's vision narrowed to Dean's lips, the rest of his face going dim like an old photograph, blurry edges. But the lips were sharp, outlined, moving soundlessly. Sam's fingers twitched.

Dean's hand waved in front of Sam's face. "….and you're zoning. Come on! Wake up. Fucking zoning. Are you high? What the hell's the matter with you?"

Sound came back in a rush, hurt his ears, made his temples ache. He realised that he had his own hand extended, half way lifted, on his way to touch. He yanked it back, put both hands in his lap, knotting them together. "I have to…" Sam swallowed thickly, his tongue was too big, his throat so dry. "Bathroom."

He almost tripped over a chair on his way, bumped his hip instead. The bathroom was empty, but Sam checked under the doors to the stalls anyway. You could never be too careful. Careful, Sam sighed and leaned against the wall. Careful was getting impossible. One of these days Dean would catch him- staring, wanting- and then what? Careful was shot to hell. Sam looked down at his hands. Big, clumsy hands. What the hell was he thinking? Letting it slip like that, reaching out. He couldn't even keep his shit together in public. It really was just a matter of time now.

If it wasn't so wrong it would almost be funny. This obsession. Eating him alive. At first, he had blamed it on hormones, being fourteen and horny, with the newly discovered knowledge of what to do with himself. Popping a boner as soon as Dean even looked at him. He hadn't questioned it then, the obsession. Dean had been so 'Dean' already, cocksure, bowlegged, hip swaying gait, driving Sam nuts. There had never been any room left for anyone else. But that was long ago. Sam didn't know what to blame it on now. He just wanted. Everything.

The water was cool, gurgling through the pipes, making the silence in the restroom less loud. Sam splashed his face, felt his hair plaster against his forehead. Glared at himself in the spotty mirror, at the too dark shadows under his eyes. Only a matter of time.

He took a deep breath, tried to get at least a semblance of a hold of himself, and pressed a hand hard at his semi-stiff dick, willing it to wilt. It strained a little under the heel of his hand, twitched. Even now, on the brink of exhaustion, panic, whatever, he was still yearning for what he couldn't have. Couldn't stop his body from reacting. Couldn't stop his mind from making images. Couldn't stop being hard.

Dean didn't say anything when Sam sat down at the table again and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry, not for food at least, and he couldn't bear to put anything in his mouth. But there was something in the way Dean looked at him, that made Sam's skin crawl. Too knowing, too on edge. Too…expectant.

The coffee was lukewarm, tasted like acid. Sam couldn't swallow; he spit it back in the cup.

 

IV. Now

If the sun would cloud over for just two goddamn minutes, Sam would cry from relief. But it doesn't. The sky is clear, almost white in the heat, here, close to the Mexican border. And it's hot. Too hot.

Sam is sweating rivers, shirt wet, hair wet, sticky. The upholstery is burning his ass through his jeans; he sits behind the wheel, waiting for Dean to give him the sign. But Sam doesn't complain, doesn't move, tries to not look at Dean's legs, the curve of his ass, bent over the engine, halfway under the hood. Sam can see skin, Dean's shirt has ridden up, got stuck on his sweaty back. Sam wants to lick. So he doesn't look. At all.

It's the touching. Sam feels like he's going crazy, crazier. Dean is touching him. Nudges of his hand when he takes the paper from Sam. Shoulders bumping when they walk side by side. Thigh pressed against thigh when Dean sits too damn close. Crazy.

And now this. The car needs an emergency repair, at the side of the road, in the blistering heat. Dean's working, economic, graceful movements almost like a dance. Sam wants to touch back. Run his finger along the low riding waist of Dean's jeans. Trail the inseam from knee to groin. Rip the shirt open. Dean might as well be bare; his shirt is so wet it's plastered on him, showing every little ripple in his back.

It never, ever fucking stops. Sam thought he would get past it, get over the obsession, but he hasn't. Dean is crawling under his skin, getting into his head and Sam can't stop thinking. Can't stop obsessing. There is nothing sane about this. But Sam isn't sane. Not by a long shot. Long years of wanting, leaving, trying to forget, haven't helped at all. He's still at square one, hasn't moved one bit.

The time with Jessica- sweet, sweet Jessica- loving, caring Jessica, going up in flames and that was Sam's fault. But she was never enough, never the real thing. Sam knew she knew, she looked at him sometimes, so sad, so betrayed. And he could not bring himself to change that, couldn't make himself tell her she was the only one. Because there was already an 'only one'.

Sam sighs. The car is not cooperating; Dean is getting pissed under the hood. Sweat is dripping and Sam wants to lick. Trace Dean's back with his tongue, sweep off the drops gathering at the waistband of his boxers. Catch the trickle from his face that ends up pooled in the hollow of his throat. It never, ever fucking stops and god knows that Sam has tried to make it stop. But to sit in the diners, hands trembling, watching Dean as he inhales the fries, that is not helping. Watching Dean in whatever motel room they are shacked up in, Dean fresh from the shower, flopped on the bed. It never, ever fucking stops!

Dean stands up, stretches his back. Sam stares at him, at the soft skin of his belly when Dean pulls his shirt up and wipes his face.

He sits there, in the car, hand between his legs. Gave up, he just gave up. There is no getting out of this. Dean is back under the hood, bending over, and Sam can't help but think about how easy it would be to just step up behind him. Press close. Hands on Dean's slim hips, pushing his jeans down and press even closer.

Sam traces his dick with thumb and forefinger. He's so hard, again. Has to have some relief. There has been no chance for privacy these last few days. Dean has been watching him like a hawk. Turned down gigs, kept close, and not letting Sam out off his sight. The twitching and tingling in Sam has gone from painful to pure torture. He has to let a little steam off.

He presses his hand against himself. Feels the hard ridge lined up against his belly, cockhead almost sticking up over the waist of his pants. Sam slips a finger inside, rubs gently over the wet head. Just have to, just a little, before he explodes. Dean leans forward, back and legs tensing and Sam can't stop. He rubs a little harder, thumb joining in the rhythmic squeezing. Just this, no more. Until Dean spreads his legs, tilts his ass up, then Sam has to. More. He's using his hand now, not just the fingers, squeeze, release. Dean doesn't notice, busy with the engine.

Would be so easy to just step up. Wouldn't take much to fit his hips against Dean's, drop his pants, feel skin. Harsh breaths are wheezing out off him, thundering in the desert silence, and he doesn't care. Sam works his hand a little faster, the other one white knuckle gripping the steering wheel. Just a little push and he would…

"Sam!"

The world stutters back in, Sam goes completely still, hand unmoving, trapped. 'He' is trapped. "Sam, wake up. Try to start her. I think I got it now."

Fingers clamping down, thumb over the slit, sliding in the wetness, he's so close his teeth ache.

"Sam, I said start her up. Now!"

Sam comes. The now shoots sparks from head to toes in him and he can't hold back. He bites down on his lip, almost bites through it. Cock jerking in his hand, thick spurts of come soiling the inside of his boxers, and feels like it never, ever stops. As though he's wringing his spine out, leaving him boneless and stupid, curled over the steering wheel. But still there is no pleasure in it, just steam erupting.

"What the hell? You dead in there?" Dean is annoyed, Sam can tell. Heat's getting to him too. He croaks something back, could be yes, could be fuck me, take me. His hand, when he pulls it out, is sticky and wet, he wipes it on his shirt before reaching for the key. The car starts on the first try and Sam is out in a heartbeat.

He yanks the trunk open, rummages for a clean shirt in his bag. Has to hide the shameful spots, hide what he has done. There is no helping the wet patch on his pants though, he settles for pulling the shirt down as far as it goes. Should be able to sit in the car now, for a few hours, keeping it down.

But when he closes the trunk and turns back to Dean he is so screwed. The sun is playing over Dean's naked chest; he's standing with his arms stretched over his head, shirt in one hand. Sam can hear the pop in his back when he bends a little backwards. Sam stares, can't turn away and Dean catches him. Stares back. If it wasn't so unbelievable, Sam could swear he's seeing hunger in Dean's eyes. And just like that, he's hard again, dick straining painfully against the wet fabric. He tears his eyes away and walks over to the passenger side, sits down, tries to breathe.

They leave in a cloud of dust. The water bottle Sam finds in the glove compartment is so hot the water is almost boiling. He forces down a gulp. Does not look at Dean again for miles.

 

V.

If Dean could just stop fucking touching him for two goddamn minutes, Sam might be able to think again. But Dean doesn't, keeps touching him. Sam doesn't understand it. He understands the need in himself, but not why Dean keeps up the patting on Sam's shoulder, not really pats but more like stroking. Down his back, up, gently tugging his hair. Leaving trails of heat behind when his fingers touch Sam's. Sitting too close on the couch; knees, elbows brushing.

Sam fists his hands, hard enough for his nails to carve little crescents in his palms. He wants so desperately to touch his own hand against the spot on his neck where Dean just touched him. Feel if the heat blazing is just in his head or if he really is on fire. He doesn't. Tucks his hands in his lap instead, for the millionth time. Glances at Dean, catches him licking his mouth. A natural thing to do, what is left of their meal still on the table. Take out. Chinese. Tasted of ashes, what little Sam managed to swallow. Catches Dean looking at him again, tongue slowly swiping over his lower lip. Sam finds something extremely interesting to look at outside. Doesn't look again, lets Dean lick his lips in peace.

Dean is flopped on the bed, magazine in one had, remote in the other. Sam sits by the rickety table, laptop starting up. He has his back turned but he can see Dean's reflection in the still black screen. Dean is watching him. Magazine dropped beside him, Dean watches him. There is nothing unusual about this, Sam by the table, Dean on the bed. Lap top. Magazine. But Dean is staring at him, frowning. The screen flairs to life and the reflection is gone.

An hour, maybe an hour and a half. At last Sam finds what he's looking for, and he is stupidly grateful for having to do research. Keeps his mind busy. Keeps his hands busy. He turns towards the bed and finds Dean asleep. He's propped up against the headboard, head lolled to the side, mouth half open. Sam freezes.

Dean looks like a little boy. Innocent in a way he has never had the chance to be. Peaceful. Not like Sam's fitful sleeping. No twitching, no pained sounds, no nightmares. What is there though, is the bulge in Dean's jeans. His right hand rests just next to it, and while Sam looks, the hand moves a little, covers the bulge. Dean does moan then. A soft little sound that goes straight to Sam's already overheated reptile brain, hotwiring to his dick.

He seriously had never though it possible to have a shut down like this. No upper brain functions at all. Just the basic ones. Dean wriggles on the bed, rubs his hand over the bulge, spreads his legs and Sam is gone. Again.

Both hands between his legs. It's worse than it was in the car the day before. Everything is spinning so fast, spinning out off control and Sam has no shot keeping up with it. Dean is barefoot on the bed. His ankles look so delicate without boots on. Sam wonders what it would feel like to touch them. Soft skin, bones. Would it be soft against his lips? Maybe tickle a little if he dared press a kiss there? Gripping tighter, his hands clutch convulsively over the hard ridge he's sporting. Tongue flicking out over his dry lips, and he's up from the chair before he can think. Halfway to the bed before he can stop himself. Dean moans again, fingers mirroring Sam's; squeezing.

Dean's dirty shirt is tossed at the foot of the bed. Sam snags it as he walks by, locks himself in the bathroom. He stands there, leaning against the sink, back to the mirror. He can't stand to see himself, not like this, not when he's going to do this, again.

It hurts every time now. Sam yanks the zipper open, pushes his jeans down just enough. The knock on the door startles him and it takes him a moment to register Dean's sleep-groggy voice.

"Hurry up. Gotta piss." He double taps on the door for emphasis, making Sam almost bite his tongue off.

"Just a sec," he says. "Just gimme two goddamn minutes and I'm out."

 

 

VI. Now

"Open the door, Sammy!"

The knocking doesn't stop, Sam has the feeling that Dean really will kick the door in if he doesn't open it. But he can't do that. Not right now. Not yet.

"Two minutes, just gimme two goddamn minutes and I'll be out." Sam forces the words out between clenched teeth.

"You said two minutes five minutes ago and I have to piss! Like right now."

The banging takes up again and Sam can't. He just can't. The head of his dick sticks up between his fingers, red and swollen. It's too dry; he's gripping it too hard. And he can't. Can't come, can't stop the images from flashing, and can't stop the wanting. He buries his face in the T-shirt he's holding, rubs it against his cheeks. And still he can't.

The shirt smells of Dean, sweat and gunpowder, and Sam digs his teeth into it. Muffles his pained groan with it, trying to drown himself in the smell, make it real. Tries to hurry up. The dry sobs go the same way, hidden in the worn fabric. Can't let Dean hear.

Sam tries so hard, but he fails every time. He jacks himself fast and mercilessly, there has never been any pleasure in this, not then and not now, not ever. But the pain, both the burning scrape of his calloused fingers on his flesh and the ripping claws in his chest, makes what he does ok anyway. He's paying for it, with every breath and every move. You always pay your debts.

He doesn't hear the lock snick open, doesn't hear the door being opened. Sam doesn't react until Dean puts his hand on Sam's neck. Then he freezes. Can't move, can't breathe.

"What are you doing, Sam?" Dean's voice is soft. Gentle in a way Sam hasn't heard since he was little and needed hugs because the things under his bed had made terrible noises. Sam can't breathe and he doesn't dare to open his eyes, because he knows what he will see on Dean's face.

But there is no yelling, no disgusted comments, not even a pissy one. Dean takes the shirt from Sam, pulls it away from his cramping fingers. The hand on Sam's neck is still there, strong and gentle, thumb rubbing behind his ear. Pulls Sam's other hand away from his dick. There is no conscious decision that moves Sam's hands to grasp Dean, one hand on his hip, the other one on his shoulder. Sam holds on, fingers gripping the fabric on the verge of tearing it. But when he leans his head on Dean, buries his face in the crook of his neck, he does so because Dean pulls him there.

The thumb keeps rubbing; small soothing circles, and Dean's voice is far away when he speaks. "You're supposed to tell me when there is something wrong, Sam. I'll take care of you." The thumb rubs. "Look at you. All chafed. Hurting yourself, Sammy. Don't do that. Lemme help you instead."

Sam presses his face closer to Dean, opens his mouth over the pulse beating steadily against his lips. Moans. He can't help it, can't keep it in, Dean smells so fucking good, tastes so good. Salt and sweat and sweet. Sam doesn't know what to do anymore, so fucking helpless and he hates it. Dean hums in his ear, rubs his thumb. Puts his hand on Sam's dick.

The fire that ate Jess is nothing in comparison to what Sam feels when Dean holds him. It's eating him in ways not known to mankind. Hot. Soft. Gentle and wet. Dean grips him loosely, barely there. Just holding him.

"You gotta do it, Sammy. Have to show me what you want." Dean's voice is barely above a whisper, but it still echoes in Sam's ears. He grunts and pushes, can't not push. Has to. Still doesn't dare to raise his head and look. Has to feel. Once. He grips Dean's shirt even harder, feels the fabric give a little. Dean doesn't say anything, just holds him a little tighter, gripping a little harder.

Sam keens. Muffling the sounds against Dean's throat, because this is so good he might scream. He pushes into Dean's hand, licks his neck, feels the pulse against his tongue and there is no stopping now. Dean's shirt tears at the shoulder, Sam's fingers clawing the fabric. Stutters his hips, no rhythm, the angle is wrong and for the first time in for ever it's good, so good. No pain. Strong hand, gentle grip, just right.

The pulse under his mouth is speeding up, Dean's panting in his ear. Sam is so close, can feel it kick its way up from the soles of his feet, sizzle in the tips of his fingers.

"C'mon, do it. Show me, Sammy. Wanna see." Dean's lips grazes Sam's ear, tongue flicking out, swiping over his cheekbone. The fingers around his neck tighten when Dean tilts Sam's head, catching his mouth. The hand on Sam's dick slows when Dean runs his tongue over Sam's lips, pushing for entrance. Sam opens. How can he not? Opens for Dean, for whatever he may want. Dean licks his way inside, touching tongue to tongue. The moan is more of a whine this time, but Dean swallows it, fucks his tongue into Sam's mouth again and again, moves his hand faster, meeting Sam's desperate thrusts.

When he comes, it blacks him out a little, making the world go fuzzy on the edges. Sam manages to force his eyes open just before, he has to see, to know what Dean's thinking. Why Dean is doing this. He pulls away from Dean, looks him straight in the eyes, hips moving frantically into Dean's hand.

What he sees sets him off like an avalanche. Dean is staring at him, eyes burning, almost no green left, pupils dilated. It looks like Dean wants, wants this, touching Sam. Cheeks a little flushed, tongue caught between his teeth, pink tip sticking out just so and Sam loses it.

Dean holds him up when Sam's knees give out. Leads him out to the bed and tips him down onto it. Says "I really gotta piss now".

Sam can hear him in the bathroom, groaning with relief when he finally gets to it. "Fucking mayhem trying to piss with a hard on." Sam sniggers, just like that. It's not funny; this is probably the strangest situation he has ever been in. But he can't keep the giggles in. Hysterical much? he thinks to himself but he knows that Dean's hand must be sticky with semen, knows that Dean didn't wipe it off. Thinks of Dean holding his dick with a semen-sticky hand, the giggle turns to a moan.

When Dean comes back from the bathroom, Sam is hard again. Hard and terrified. Hard and still trying to choke back the giggle. But that glare Dean aims at him makes him swallow the bubbly sounds down. He looks down at Sam, eyes unreadable, a hint of the heat still there. Sam feels his throat go dry, the giggles gone in a heartbeat.

Sam's arms are still weak, just as the rest of him, but he struggles up, half sitting. Opens his mouth to apologise, can barely get any sounds out, croaks out something that is meant to be sorry or touch me again.

Dean stares at him. "Shut up, Sammy."

 

VII. Now.

"I don't…I want…"

"Shut up, Sammy. Just shut up for two goddamn minutes and let me talk, alright?"

He must look like an owl, blinking like that, Sam thinks. He closes his mouth with a snap, though, no talking back to Dean when he has that tone going. Almost like dad's but not, not as hard in the edges. More like 'this is important and you better listen' without the violence lurking behind the syllables. Sam shakes his head, realises that he doesn't make sense even to himself and has to shakes his head again because Dean is frowning. He probably thinks that Sam just said no to him. Sam wouldn't do that, not now anyway.

Sam scoots up the bed, leans back. Damn if he can be bothered to try to wrench his hard dick back in his jeans so he just tugs his shirt down, studiously ignoring the tent that creates. Why should he bother? It's not like this will change anything. Dean is probably standing there; quiet and watching, manning up to tell Sam to take his weirdsicko ass as far away as possible. Dean had just done 'that' because he's nice like that. Always taken care. And being that nice, and having 'take care of your little brother' fucking ingrained in his bones, has made him put his hands on Sam. Kiss him. No other reason. This is where it ends, Sam knows that.

He thinks briefly if he has something he needs to get beside his bag and his laptop, but can't come up with anything. What is left is to listen to Dean laying down the law, bag it up and leave. There is a bus station not far down the road, there has to be a late bus leaving. Sam can do that. Hell, he can do anything to stop Dean looking at him like that, intently. It crawls under his skin, like Dean's steady gaze is picking him apart. And why the fuck isn't he saying anything? Told Sam to shut it and fell silent. Makes Sam all the harder, having Dean looking at him like that.

"No shoes in bed, gets the sheets all dirty." The offhand remark startles Sam out of his thoughts. Looks up at Dean, flinches when he sees Dean still looking at him, his dick twitching where it's hidden under his shirt.

Dean takes a deep breath. 'Here it comes', Sam thinks and sighs in defeat. He looks down at his hands, big clumsy hands, waits for it.

"I know, Sam. I've known for years." Dean's tone is short, clipped. Sam's head jerks up, like being pulled by a string. Did he just hear that? Opens his mouth to say…something, But Dean raises his hand to shut him up, making Sam swallow whatever tried to make its way out.

"Since…for years. Since you lost your baby fat." Dean smiles, a weird, lop-sided grin. "Since you began jerking off and I heard you."

Sam can't breathe, for real this time. There is no chance for air to make its way through his constricted throat. Dean knows. Knows. He bends forward, pulls his knees up, tries to hide. Dean knows. All the time. Hasn't said anything but still he has known. Sam has never wished to be dead as much as he does right now. God, what it must have taken Dean to come get him when he knew how sick Sam is, was, has been. Will never stop being. His head is spinning because he can still not breathe, the giggles working again to break free from his constricted throat.

"I wanted too, Sam." Dean is so close all of a sudden, Sam hadn't heard him move. His hand is back on Sam's neck, breath hot and moist over his cheek. Sam hitches in a breath, gets his lungs working again before he passes out. The fingers move, thumb rubbing calming circles.

"Did you hear, Sammy? I wanted it. All the time. I knew what you were doing and I wanted it too." Dean is hissing the words. "I waited for you to say something, but you never did. And I fucking waited for you. And wanted. Every damn day. With you, always around." He stops, breathing hard.

"I've had it with waiting. I know what you did in the car yesterday. Jerking off. I know how you fuck yourself on your fingers. And man, I can tell you I've been this close to grab you. You never said anything, and then you were gone. So angry and then you left. But now, I'm not gonna wait anymore. Not gonna let you go again." He leans in, tilts Sam's head up, leans his forehead against Sam's, breath hot against his face. "Not losing you again."

"You…knew?" Sam has to ask, stupid but he has to. He tries to get his head around all this, but can only think of his cock still hanging out of his pants. He's soft now, but still, and there is Dean having a heart to heart and Sam's dick is hanging out. Sam feels himself turn beet red, flushing from his hair to his belly, the skin oddly sensitive, as if the blood makes it thinner.

"Yeah, I knew." Dean leans back. "And now I'm done waiting for you. I thought…I thought that you would get around to it before. You were going to touch me, right? When you thought I was asleep." It's not so much of a question, more of a statement, Dean knowing he's right, just looking for the last confirmation.

"This is the only time I'm gonna ask, Sam. You have to make the call, I…can't."

Sam stares at him. It makes an odd kind of sense; Dean not doing anything about it. Of course he can't, he'd never do anything that Sam doesn't want. And he can't be really sure that this is what Sam wants, not until Sam calls it. Properly. Sleeping possum to get Sam to do something, flaunting himself. Trying to hurry things up. Sam wonders briefly what Dean was thinking about, getting hard like that. Feels himself twitch, thinking about Dean thinking about Sam.

But having repressed it for so long, digging it up in the lights, opening the can of worms, feels like having a nail pulled out. Buried too deep for too long.

This can go either of two ways, freak out and run or roll with it. There is something desperate in Dean's eyes; telling Sam that rolling with it is the only way. That, and that he really wants to. He's hard again, from Dean sitting so close, from the look on his face, from the heat Dean is radiating. Like a furnace. Must be that which fries the fuse in Sam's head.

So Sam rolls. Literally. Pins Dean under him, rubs where he can. Dean yelps when he lands on his back with a thud, but then they move together. Easy, knowing. Smooth. As they always do. And Sam knows, just like that, this will be alright. It won't be easy or anything but it'll be alright.

This time when they kiss, Sam starts it. Leans in and bites at Dean's mouth, listens, really listens, to the moan vibrating through Dean when he does so. Licks down Dean's chest, groans at the taste of him, so much better than the shirt. There is the inevitable fumbling, legs tangled, Sam almost knocks Dean in the face with his elbow, but they get it sorted. Clothes off and miles of now naked Dean on top of him, straddling him, legs spread wide around Sam's hips. Sam's hands are trembling when he lets them roam over the pale skin, touches wherever he can. He pushes his lotion-slick fingers inside Dean, feels the heat in there, feels Dean push down, spreading open, fucking himself on Sam's hand. And Dean's hands on Sam, rough and strong, skating over him, slipping in the wet pooling on Sam's belly, smearing it out. Lips on his throat, teeth, Dean likes to bite, not too hard but enough to send forbidden tingles up and down Sam's spine. He's getting marked.

If feels like his heart is beating its way through his ribcage when Dean eases down on him, grunting, rocking. He's mumbling between his teeth, Sam can see the discomfort on his face but Dean doesn't stop. Sits down, Sam all the way inside. Another fuse fries when he sees pain morph to pleasure on Dean's face, sees the flush spreading down his chest. His hands fit so perfectly around Dean's hips, perfect grip to lift him up and shove down. He notices the growling noises, thinks it's Dean at first but it's him, Sam, making them. There is heat and tight and ohsomyfuckinggod good. Dean rides him hard, fast, and there is no chance in hell Sam can last. He lets go with something akin to a howl when Dean squeezes tight and tighter around him, pumping up, in.

Dean sits on him, Sam's softening cock still inside, his own still achingly hard, dripping. He's smiling and Sam can feel his own mouth split into a grin. "Awesome," Dean says. "Awesome but dude, that was fast." The smile is still there though, taking the edge off the words.

Sam blushes, he hasn't lost it this fast in years, prides himself of a little more self-control. "Yeah, well…sorry," he offers.

There is something predatory flashing over Dean's face when he leans close, lets Sam slip from his ass with a wet plop. "Nah,'s ok. My turn now." His grin widens. "Gonna fuck you hard again, gonna make you come so hard."

Sam barely has the time to gasp before he is flipped over on his belly, Dean weighing him down. "Get you wet first, and then Sammy, gonna take you, fuck you so good." Teeth scrape Sam's neck, nips his jugular, sending shivers down his spine and he can't wait, no matter he's not hard yet, just wants Dean inside. He tries to push up on his hand and knees, but Dean has him pinned. Sam's wrist in one hand, holding him down, the other…

He's not new to this, but it has been a while for Sam, he knows it'll hurt but he couldn't care less. Dean's reaching so deep inside, tapping that spot, this time Sam knows the sounds are coming from him. Desperate, high pitched if he could make words he would beg sounds. Dean shoves his legs even wider apart, lies down and covers Sam from head to toe. The first nudge in burns, the slow slipslide all the way inside almost tears him apart. He's gonna feel this for days. And god so good this is too. Dean on him, in him, all over. Hard again. No shame this time, with Dean's hand pushed under his belly, fisting him just right. Letting his thrusts rock Sam into his hand and back on his dick. It's not aching anymore, just that little that makes it all the better.

Dean gnaws at his neck, his shoulders, speeding up. Sam can hear the strain in his moans. He's close and that thought alone has Sam on the edge too. He's so hard again it hurts, spearing his dick the best he can into the tunnel Dean's fist makes for him. Shoving back to meet Dean, feels the hard ridges of hipbones digging into his ass.

"God damn, Sammy, you're good." Dean groans, thrusting deep and short. "So good, Sammy."

Sam knows he should deliver a compliment himself but Dean hits him straight on that spot so speaking is out ruled. The only thing Sam can do, because it's hitting him like a gun shot, is to come. Almost bucking Dean off when his hips jerk up and back, getting Dean deeper, forward into his hand.

Dean makes a noise like it hurts, "Ah god, can't hold it. Gonna fill your ass. So good, Sammy." Dirty words, the image forces another spasm out off Sam, even though he's wrung dry. Sam can feel him swell and spasm inside, fill him up, teeth on his neck.

It's a little awkward after. Untangling, Sam winces when Dean slips free, the sheet is sticky under him, he is sticky. Doesn't know where to look. Now, when it's all over, he still doesn't have his bearings on where this will go.

"Stop freakin' over-thinking again. It's good, we're good. Now drop it and go to sleep." Dean yawns. Pulls Sam close, arm over his chest. "No more hiding now, you hear?" He scoots even closer, kissing Sam on the corner of his mouth and settles with his head on Sam's shoulder.

To his amazement, Sam feels his eyes droop. Can't keep them open, goes to sleep and doesn't dream.

When Sam wakes, hours later, he starts awake, panic flaring. Until his hand connects with warm and solid that huffs irritably. "The hell? Stop hitting me." Dean grumbles and Sam tips over on him. Lands hard, gets more irritated huffing but have to feel, make sure it's real. Feel Dean under him, not going anywhere, that Dean really is real and that Sam isn't dreaming. The ache in his ass is one sign he can't ignore, but he saviours the burn. It says 'Dean was here', made it happen. The thin skin on Dean's throat just under his jaw, is too tempting, Sam has to kiss it. Run his tongue over it, taste. Dean grumbles unintelligibly, but arches his neck to give more Sam more room.

Sam has no idea what time it is, must be late, in the middle of the night, perhaps morning soon. Doesn't matter. Dean is kissing him again, soft and gentle, slipping his tongue in between Sam's lips. Tasting and trying. Swallowing his breath and the low mewling sounds that Sam makes.

Dean fucks him on his back, slow and steady, one hand on Sam's cheek, the other on his hip. It lasts forever and not long enough, Dean doesn't pick up the pace, drives Sam crazy, keeps kissing him. Dean inside him hurts a little, but that has no significance, Dean is so very careful with him, now, this time. There are no loud noises, just the half-whimpered gasps Dean lets out every time he pushes in. Sam wraps his arms around Dean's back, legs around his waist and hangs on. There isn't much else he can do. Nothing else he wants to do. After, when they are done, after Dean's gasped 'Oh god, Sammy!' and Sam's 'Yes, yes, please, come on', they stay like that. Dean with his face in the crook of Sam's neck, Sam's arms and legs still around him.

 

Fini

 

 

Bonus schmoop ending. You might want to be very careful while reading this. It holds so much sugar your teeth might rot.

Sam dreams in the early morning hours. Not about the usual smoke stinking, fire blazing hell but about a street. Looks like any street, neat houses, neat gardens. It's empty though. He walks along the street, trying to figure out what is going on. Then he sees someone sitting on a bench. A woman. She has her back to him but she's so familiar. He speeds up, gets closer. Sees who it is and his chest constricts. Jessica.

He waits for the pain and the sorrow to hit him, tear him apart, but it doesn't come. She turns and looks at him and she is so beautiful. Like before. Smiles at him and waves. When he takes a step forward she puts up her hand to stop him. He stands there, hesitating. She points behind him.

Another familiar figure is standing across the street. Dean. He is waiting for something, someone. Sam can tell from the way he stands that he is getting a little impatient. Sam looks back at Jessica. She is still looking at him, smile on her face. She looks good, content, happy even. She motions for him to walk away and Sam doesn't understand. Not until he turns back again, to Dean. Sees him stand there with his hand outstretched towards Sam. Still waiting. For Sam.

He takes a hesitant step towards Dean. Waits for the guilt to blossom but when it doesn't he takes another step, and another. Stands in front of Dean. Twining their fingers together. Begins to walk. Away. He looks back to Jessica one last time. She's standing, on her way in the other direction. Waves at him again and Sam knows that this is goodbye. He takes a firmer grip of Dean's hand.


End file.
